Hospital For Souls
by Hunger-and-Insanity
Summary: The rebels defeated the Capitol during the Dark Days. 86 years later, Peeta Mellark is a successful doctor working at Panem University Hospital in District 12 when Katniss Everdeen is admitted to his facility. She's a hopeless case, but Peeta is more than willing to help the gray eyed girl. That is… if he could only control himself around her long enough to. AU, psychological drama
1. Chapter 1

**Hey, if you're actually reading this, thanks for opening my story. It's been stuck in my head for weeks now, and I've finally managed to put it into words for publish. This is somewhat of an epilogue, meaning the next chapter is where the action can begin. Note that this is rated M for minor explicit scenes later on and many discussions about sex in general. Hope you enjoy!**

**The title is taken from a song of the same name by Bring Me The Horizon, I highly recommend you check it out, unless metal isn't your style just read the lyrics. And don't forget to review, I will reply to any praise, comments, or suggestions you'd like to talk about.**

**Disclaimer: **I sadly don't own The Hunger Games. Fuck my life.

**Summary: **The rebels defeated the Capitol during the Dark Days. 86 years later, Peeta Mellark is a successful doctor working at Panem University Hospital in District 12 when Katniss Everdeen is admitted to his facility. She's a hopeless case, but Peeta is more than willing to help the gray eyed girl. That is… if he could only control himself around her long enough to. AU, psychological drama.

* * *

**Hospital For Souls**

_The Doctor_

I wake up to the sound of my alarm buzzing noisily in my ear, effectively snapping my eyes open and pulling me out of my dreamy state. I can't say I'm particularly happy with the result. It was a surprisingly pleasant dream—a rarity in my case—though, I've forgotten nearly half of it by now. With a groan, I slam my hand down on the irritating black box, hitting the snooze button, and bury my head further into the soft cotton pillow.

The material feels heavenly against my cheek, but my efforts are in vain. I'll have to get up eventually, and the sooner the day is done with, the better.

I flip onto my back and swing my legs out to the floor. I don't even bother glancing at the other side of my bed. No one's slept in that spot in years, something that's very unlikely to change in the near future. I shake my head clear of those unwanted thoughts and head for the shower.

Forty minutes later, I'm fully dressed, brown paper bag at hand for a certain someone, and then I'm out the door.

Panem University Hospital is running like business as usual when I step through the sliding glass doors. Doctors in green scrubs and nurses in blue ones roam the lobby like it's their own, their colorful attire contrasting against the laden white walls and gray tinted floors. The air reeks of the familiar scent of sterile chemicals and freshener. Visitors and patients sitting on benches pressed against the walls visibly wrinkle their noses at the smell, but anyone working here long enough has become accustomed to it.

I'm straightening the collar of my white work coat when a heavy hand grips my shoulder.

"Well, aren't you coming in early all of a sudden," says a gruff male voice that oozes sarcasm. The clock above the receptionist desk clearly shows I've missed about 10 minutes on my shift.

I smirk and turn to greet the sound's source, holding up the paper bag between my fingers. "I figured you'd at least want breakfast badly enough to give me a free pass, Haymitch."

The older doctor with the red rimmed eyes and weeks-past-needing-a-trim dark hair huffs back in annoyance, removing his hand to fold his arms across his chest. I'm unsurprised, and disappointed, at the noticeably present scent of alcohol on him. Haymitch Abernathy's drinking is District 12's—and Panem Hospital's—worst kept secret. It's unprecedented how little the booze seems to affect his work. He even has a dark whiskey stain low on his jacket.

He snatches the bag from my hand quicker than I would've expected him to. For a middle-aged drinker, his reflexes are top notch. He jerks his head to the side and starts walking, indicating me to follow. I know where we're headed without him having to explain.

The cafeteria is sparsely occupied, and mostly by patients with non-critical cases, but there are a few nurses and doctors seated as well. It's a quaint place with not much to offer other than a respite from work and recovery. Patients love it here. It gives them something to do other than lie on their beds and flirt with the constant boredom. At least the air smells more natural here with all the food wafting around.

"So…. " I drag the vowel, once we're settled and Haymitch is done fishing out a hearty bagel and a container of cream cheese. It wasn't necessary, but it will sure put me in his good graces with what I'm about to ask. "How much have you had so far?"

He knows what I'm alluding to. But he laughs at the question, obviously amused, and spreads a generous amount of cheese on the bread. "I don't remember that being any of your damn business." He says.

"Can't blame me for looking out for my boss's best interest."

"That's touching. My heart is just _exploding_ with warmth."

"You still haven't answered my question." I counter playfully. Because sometimes it's irresistible to rile him up with an attitude like his.

Haymitch rolls his eyes, "Look, Mr. Self-righteous-know-it-all, what or how much I drink is still none of your concern. I've been doing this since before you were learning about Darwin in secondary school, and I'm still breathing." He takes a greedy bite out of his breakfast.

I sigh in irritation, biting down a comeback about his super-human liver, and drop the subject. He's too stubborn for his own good, and if I keep pressing him on it, that'll only get me on his bad side. He barely tolerates me thus far. It's confusing why he keeps me company with his opinion so low. He's probably just lonely. Not many people in this hospital willingly choose to associate themselves with him. They think I'm either a teacher's pet or flat out crazy for doing just that. I think it's a shame, because the man—despite his many faults and overbearing attitude—is a gifted doctor. There's never a boring day working with him.

I'm silent for a moment, eyeing him devour my floured creation. "Good?" I ask.

"Very," he says, mouth full of food. I can barely make out what comes out next, "AndIhateyouforit." But I chuckle nonetheless.

That's when the telltale siren of a half-dozen comunicuffs go off, cutting off all conversation in the room.

The few doctors and nurses present stare at the metal wrist devices, reading its message. Haymitch doesn't even lift a finger. Once finished, most of them rush to get out the door in a hurry like a group of panicked animals in a chase. I'm confused, and I catch one of them before he can run off. I think he's a nurse named Thom.

"Hey, what's going on?" I inquire. There's a look that crosses his face, calm but concerned. I know the look well. It's a sign of an urgent case around here.

"Ambulance just dropped off a critical one: a girl bleeding heavily from her wounds. Peacekeepers think it's an attempted suicide." I don't get anything else out of him before he takes off to join the rest of the pack. They must be part of the Emergency unit.

Haymitch perks, a lazy grin perched on his lips. "I think you've got yourself a brand new patient, Mellark."

He continues eating unbothered, completely at peace, without sparing another word. Adversely, I feel as if the air has been forcibly knocked out of my lungs, robbing me of its oxygen. My mind is already conjuring up images of a faceless girl laying on a gurney, slightly bloodied up and unconscious, surrounded by nurses attempting to stop the flow of leaking redness that soaks through the sheets. It's not a pretty picture. I can't remember the last time I've heard of a suicide—attempted or otherwise—happening in District 12. I think it's safe to say it's been a few years.

Haymitch is snapping his fingers in front of my face now, pulling me out of my trance. I blink twice before meeting his gaze. "What?" I ask.

"I said, are you okay, boy?" he repeats, annoyance palpable in his undertone. I didn't even realize he'd aired a question before.

I nod vigorously, "Yeah, fine."

He gives me a once over with his eyes, as if doubting my wellbeing, and then shakes his head. "Alright then, paramedics are gonna need some time patching your girl up. So, until she's transferred, we need you in Psychiatrics. Think you can handle it, kid?"

I smirk, "Of course I can. I'm not a baby, Haymitch."

"Then get going."

Another tease at him, a signature scowl directed at me, and I don't have to be told twice to get back to work. Only problem is, the nameless girl whose life is on the line in the ICU refuses to leave my thoughts. And I can't think of one reason why that is.

* * *

_The Patient_

Softness encases me, like a cocoon would a caterpillar. It feels nice, relaxing. Peaceful. I forgot what the word entailed. My panic is gone, rolling off my body in waves. For the first time in a long time, I can breathe normally. There's no sense of entrapment anymore. No agonizing depression to suffocate me. No hunger to starve my body. No walls to cave in and crush me. No graves to dig anymore.

It's someone else who will be burying me. A complete stranger. I'm oddly content with that. They will not cry over me or give rousing eulogies to somber crowds. If anyone even attends. I don't deserve a big crowded funeral. No, it's more suitable to be obscure, forgotten like this, from people's minds as I hide in my shell, like an endangered turtle. They can save their tears; I have no one else to live for.

And to think, all it took was my hand and a blade to my wrist.

It was almost haunting the number of times the idea crossed my mind once conceived. And it had been more difficult than I'd originally thought it would be. I had to fight off my own survival instincts, which nearly seized control of my hand and screamed at me to drop the blade. I eventually won out through patient persistence. But even then, I stilled my shaky hold on the instrument.

I was missing something. Craving something, to be more exact.

I longed to hear a voice other than my own. I didn't care whose. I longed to feel another human being's touch. Even that green-eyed, bronze-tanned prick at the fish market would've been better than nothing. He'd winked and smirked at me when our fingers brushed over my order; I merely scowled at his suggestive flirtations. But, more importantly, I longed for bread. Bread meant there was hope, and I desperately yearned for some hope.

I can't put a precise date on when I began associating the food with the feeling. I just know I can never look at the baked staple again without feeling my heartbeat race and a flutter tickle my stomach like a swarm of butterflies. Or thinking about the boy behind the bread.

That's when my needy thoughts came to a halt. I was procrastinating. No one was there to speak to me. I'd disconnected the house phone in a fit of depressed rage as it shattered against the wall I'd thrown it at. No one was there to give me solace or wrap their arms around me. The house was empty of life with me as the sole exception. And no one was going to sneak me some bread this time.

I started weeping. Then wailing, curling myself into a ball on the tiled bathroom floor I'd taken refuge in. Then I finally slashed my wrist. The blood arrived soon after, but wasn't dramatically overflowing as I so often thought it would be. It took longer than I'd expected, but I remember I was still crying when I'd, at long last, mercifully succumbed into dark, savory unconsciousness. Bread was still on my mind, and so was the silhouette of a man, now grown up, with shaggy blond hair and intense sapphire blue eyes. The pounding of my heart made my chest ache like a punching bag. It saddened me to know he'd be the last image in my mind.

Peeta Mellark, the boy who saved my life, wasn't here to save me again. He couldn't save me. I was simply destined to fail him. Destined to give up hope, like that last loaf of bread I'd rejected from him years ago.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow guys. That's all I can say, I'm literally speechless by the response I've got for this! You people are the greatest on Earth. I'm beyond ecstatic you're all interested and enjoying the story so far. I have many plans for this fic, but I take it one chapter at a time so my update schedule isn't the most consistent. I can promise a minimum of 1 or 2 chapters a month. But hey, maybe a few reviews can guilt me into speeding them up ;) I love you guys and thank you so much for the alerts and favorites!**

**The title is taken from a song of the same name by Bring Me The Horizon, I highly recommend you check it out, unless metal isn't your style just read the lyrics. And don't forget to review, I will reply to any praise, comments, or suggestions you'd like to talk about. I'm only a PM away.**

**Special Thanks to those who did review Chapter 1: .Style, kiwi(guest), 4-eva-bookworm, asdfghjkl1194, Tori666000, and PeetaFinnick.**

**And an even bigger thanks to the 2 with the longest reviews: TitanNegro and cali-chan. I prefer long ones, cuz I like to think it's more about the quality than the quantity of the reviews I get. Again, thank you all and enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: **I sadly do not own The Hunger Games. Fuck my life.

* * *

**Hospital For Souls**

_The Patient_

I should've known something was wrong when I'd started feeling lightheaded. That was the first sign.

The second sign was the irritating rawness of my throat. It made it much harder to breathe and felt as dry as sandpaper. My only comfort was the soft cocoon that enveloped me, like worn but freshly cleaned bed sheets. I imagine this is what a cloud would feel like—if it wasn't composed of vapor and air. I took that as a sign that I was surely dead.

My father used to tell me and my sister bedtime stories. One night, after we had asked about what _the Hanging Tree_ song was about, he'd explained the idea of death to us. We were both very young; I was no older than nine years of age. Prim, a measly five and a half. I had a faint grasp of the idea, but it was very vague. Our father had told us stories and myths Panem's ancestors had believed: the blinding light at the end of the tunnel that was a person's life, which would flash before their eyes in milliseconds. A city in the clouded sky with a gate made of gold and angels flocking around. A place for the good people of the world to live out their lives after death.

My sister sucked up the stories like a sponge, but I was more mature. I could see the look on my father's face. A small, satisfied grin etched into his dark features, but a spark of doubt in his steely gray eyes. He seemed to like the myths, but I never got the impression he truly believed them. Our ancestors weren't known to be the wisest of people back then. Most of them were horribly fictitious, fanciful tales conjured by others to entertain their children or themselves. Or so I thought.

I guess I was finally about to find out.

But I was too late to notice the signs.

Muffled sounds alert me that I'm not alone in my environment. The consistent beeping far off to my right is proof enough of that, along with the shuffling of feet.

_Maybe the city in the sky had a lot of foot traffic, _I wonder.

My entire left arm aches with pain from where I'd cut the delicate skin of my wrist all the up to my upper forearm. I remember the sting it had caused, the ghost's touch of the blade sends goose bumps through my core. It has the unintended effect of rippling to my extremities, allowing me to regain movement of my legs. It _does_ feel as if I'm wrapped in a blanket of some sort. But that's ridiculous; I'm dead, I couldn't—or shouldn't—feel anything.

My eyes remain closed. I don't want to admit it, but I'm truly frightened by what I would find if I open them. A dark empty room? A group of angels waiting over me to break from my slumber? Anything is possible at this point. Death is an unsolvable mystery to the living.

I can't feel the minutes passing; only the short intervals between every beep off to my right give any indication that time is moving.

_Beep…beep...beep._ It's like an electric ping on a computer. For all my fear of the unknown, foreign situation I'm in, I find that sound more annoying than anything else.

On the eleventh beep, I begin to grow restless, tossing and turning about, much to the pained protests of my arm. On the eighteenth, I start exploring my cocoon with my fingertips, feeling out the delicate material. It's a familiar touch, resembling a linen or possibly cotton fabric. My mother would surely know which, but she's gone as well. On the thirty-first beep, I mentally prepare myself for what's to come, forcing my nerves to calm and harden like steel. _'You can't hide forever, Little Duck.' _My subconscious memories remind me. I can't stay here. I'm too vulnerable in my current state: eyes closed, injured and in pain, confined under a layer of restrictive cloth. Panic rises in my chest and greets me like an old friend. The beeping seems to accelerate and become louder. Flight is essential now.

I'd laugh at myself if I could. Even dead I was still worrying about my survival in the afterlife. It was all purely instinctual, of course. The instincts won out—they almost always did.

Slowly, I move to open my eyes. The lids feel heavy under the stress of disuse, but I force them to comply. I'm instantly blinded by the brightness when they come agape, which doesn't do anything to help my sense of insecurity. Tentatively, my sight adjusts to the glow of the room.

I'm starring up at a white ceiling, fluorescent bulbs shining down on me. The panic comes to me exceptionally quick. My breath gets caught in my throat. I know it's too late by now, I'm already processing my surroundings and I'll get to an unavoidable, unbearable conclusion soon enough. A blanket is wrapped over my body, which I now notice is situated in a bed. The beeping to my right is from a monitor that measures my heartbeat, and attached to other complex machines. It sounds off erratically, in sync to the pounding in my ears, and taking with it the calming silence. That only worsens the anxiety that's threatening to paralyze my form. I look at my left arm last. It's heavily bandaged around my wrist. A few inches above it, a tube is punctured and taped to my skin, feeding blood and fluids into my system from a plastic medical bag.

I take it in. I take it all in. The omnipresent odor of blood—my blood—invades my senses. It makes me want to empty my stomach and pull at the roots of my hair.

My lips are quivering. My mind races a million miles a second. I can no longer focus on any of the surroundings because my eyes are moving everywhere at once.

For the sake of my sanity, streams of denial pour into my consciousness. But their dosage is too little too late, and my survivalist rationale will have none of it.

I shut my eyes tight and cover my head in my arms, gripping my skull and stretching the tube leading to my injured wrist. As if any of that will shield me from the conclusion I'm about to reach. And a half second later, the thought finally penetrates my defenses and breaks me.

_I'm still alive._

Despite the rawness of my throat, I scream the first thing that comes to my mind.

_Prim._

Her name shatters any prevailing silence in the room, and I'm wailing again just like I did when I tried (and failed) to take my life.

I only stop crying to throw the blanket off me, and pull at the tube in my arm until I'm free of its life-giving fluids. It hurts like hell, but I barely register that through my hazy thoughts and tears. I look down at myself, finding I'm wearing nothing but a thin, plain nightgown that ends just above my knees. It'll have to do; I'm in no position to complain. The fear-induced adrenaline running through my veins reminds me that escape is my sole goal at the moment. But when I attempt to jump off the bed, I fall flat on my stomach and a whimper of pain escapes me. My body is half numb (probably from some drugs) and I haven't yet gotten control of my motor skills, but I crawl my way on the floor till I reach the entrance.

Two pairs of shoes and dark blue pants greet my vision. I feel twin sets of arms grab me and haul me off my feet like a scrawny kitten. A kitten with nails and isn't afraid to bite. I manage to do just that to one of the men's ears. He yelps in pain and drops me back down, while I thrash to escape the second man. He eats a well placed kick to the gut and doubles over. I just make it out of the room when reinforcements arrive, and I'm quickly outnumbered. Escape is futile now.

Five men have to drag me back onto the bed and hold me down. I struggle and claw and scream my sister's name to no avail. One of the men grabs a hold of my arm and jabs a needle in. The edges of my vision cloud up soon after, and it's not long until the empty space of unconsciousness pulls me under once again.

* * *

_The Doctor_

Everyone on the Psychiatric floor can hear the screaming that resonates from below us. It causes somewhat of a mini-tumult to erupt. Patients start going into hysteria and anxiety attacks. Pillows are being thrown everywhere, patients running around chaotically and engaging in fights. The place is in uproar, and there are only a handful of professionals present in charge of dozens of cases.

This all happens just as I think my day is going pretty well.

It takes almost an hour for the madness to subdue and a calm atmosphere to return once back up arrives to relieve us of the pressure.

I slump down on a visitor's bench with a groan, rubbing the exhaustion from my eyes. This day is not going well at all. I had to physically separate patients and console them until they were calm enough to listen—easier said than done. It's a miracle no one was hurt too badly. I curse the man who came up with the idea of putting people with mental disorders under the same roof as people with neurological disabilities. And Haymitch, for sending me up here.

I allow my eyes to close and lean my head back till it hits the wall, giving myself a few minutes of much needed rest from the unruliness. The bench shifts only slightly as more weight settles down to my right. I don't even open my eyes to find out who it could be.

A woman's voice gives me that answer. "You look like you've been through hell, Blondie." A sassy tone states. Johanna Mason. I can practically hear the smirk that crosses her lips.

Johanna Mason isn't like the other patients at Panem University Hospital. She's what we like to call an '_import_' here. In other words, a long term case coming from outside Twelve for medical treatment. They're rare but not unusual, especially where the Capitol is concerned. The idea behind it is that a possible change of scenery away from the stresses of home provides a more effective recovery with psychiatric patients. Not that many find their way over to Twelve, though. We only have two imports: Johanna from Seven and Annie Cresta from Four but she was deemed healthy enough to be an outpatient. Johanna doesn't have that luxury. Her envy is just as palpable as her brashness.

I snicker and exhale a heavy breath. "Well, your roommates haven't been making my day any easier if that's what you're saying." It's a major understatement to the hell that has just transpired in the last 60 minutes. I lightly bang my head against the wall just to clear those thoughts from my head.

She chuckles. "Oh, I don't think they're the ones you have to worry about. You heard about that girl in Intensive Care? She's got quite a set of lungs; I think she almost busted my eardrum with her whining. But that's nothing a little duct tape can't fix."

My eyes snap open as I give her an incredulous look. Not because she's considering taping a person's mouth shut—that would be a notable setback to the social progress she's making—but because she brought up our mysterious newcomer. After everything that's happened so far today, I haven't given much thought to exactly _who_ was the source of the screaming and the cause of my current misfortune. I'm a bit disappointed in myself for not making the connection sooner. The girl's never even left my thoughts and I was oblivious to come to that conclusion. The patients under watch are always the first priority, so I couldn't give that much thought but still, she was continuously on my mind. Like a nagging thought in the back of my head demanding attention, but forced to bat away.

"That was _her_?" I ask quietly, lowering my voice to not attract attention from others.

"No, it was my long lost doppelganger whose mission was to seek out and spoil your day," Johanna counters in the same tone with an eye roll. "Are you really that brainless, Blondie?" her voice returns to a higher octave. "You're lucky you're good looking. I don't think I can handle average-ass people without brains."

I manage to crack a smile at that. "Remind me again why you're her exactly? You know how much Haymitch just loves to hear you banter." Well, two can play this sarcastic game.

She waves me off dismissively. "Haymitch is an old fart with his own problems. You're much more entertaining. And innocent. How have you not been corrupted by me yet?" She runs a finger down my arm with a knowing smirk and winks suggestively. It falls flat in producing its intended effect.

I huff in annoyance and level her with a look. "We've been over this Johanna, I don't sleep with patients. Ever."

Ms. Mason is somewhat of a temptress on this floor and has been trying for the better part of her stay to seduce me. It's a running joke between us, and we both laugh about it. But that doesn't stop her from trying. Our exchanges haven't always been this smooth. I'm her psychologist, and it took time and effort to get where we are today and still keep a professional standing with the brown pixie-haired woman. I've grown immune to her teasing advances anyway. I think she only does it to _'rid me of my inexperience'_. Her words, not mine.

She slumps back down on the bench irritated. "You're no fun," she glares. "You mild-mannered boys are always the hardest to come by, and then you just go on and on about your damn 'rules'." She punctuates with air quotations. "I heard you haven't had a girlfriend in some time."

Now it's my turn to glare at her. "Who told you that?"

She practically beams at me, a mischievous glint igniting her brown irises. "So it's true!" she exclaims, leaning her head in to rest on her palms. "Tell me, who was the idiotic bitch that let you get away?"

"I am not discussing this with you of all people." _I am not opening that can of worms up to anyone,_ I add subconsciously.

"Now you're being a hypocrite. Isn't it your job to get people to open up about their deepest feelings and shit? Just a name! That's all I'm asking for."

"How did you even find out?"

Her saucy smirk makes a comeback. "People gossip, Blondie, especially in tight-knit little places like this. And a girl's got to keep herself entertained somehow. You try lying down in a bed for a couple hours in the fucking middle of the day and see how exciting it is. I just _live_ for our little tea-time talks."

Cocky as she may be, Johanna does know how to flatter a man. I blame that as the reason why my anger dissipates as quickly as it does and a grin threatens to overtake my twitching lips.

"Well, thank you for that," I nod sincerely, trying to get my expression under control. I then push myself off the bench and stand, stretching my body out to work the muscles. "But I think I should be getting back to work by now."

She shrugs nonchalantly and sighs. "Fine, fine. Go and leave me to my own devices. It's not like I'll die of boredom."

I chuckle and straighten my work coat. "You're in a hospital, I don't think we can get rid of you that easily."

An easy smile returns to her countenance and she regards me with well concealed worry. "Be careful with that girl, Blondie. She's a feisty one. Rumor has it she bit Colton in the ear and kicked Thom in the ball-sack."

I wince at the mental image, but nod in understanding. "Thanks for the heads up. I'll see you in a bit, Johanna. Take care of yourself." I give her one last look before making my way down the hall and head for the elevator.

"My room is always open if you ever need a stress reliever!" she calls out loudly from behind me. Typical innuendo, but it's a mere jest. I've stopped growing embarrassed by her words a long time ago. It does cause a few people to turn their heads, though.

"I'll take a rain check on that!" I tease, throwing a final goodbye wave over my shoulder and enter the elevator compartment.

The ride itself is short and uneventful, but as I make my way through the congested passages of the building on my way to the Intensive Care Unit, my mind wanders.

Voices drift in and out of my ears, none commanding my attention for long. Everyone seems to be talking about the girl. They all whisper the details in passing moments, as if no one else is privy to the conversation, yet everyone is keenly aware of them. It's almost like high school, and I dutifully ignore all of it. Gossip is like a cancer when kept unchecked, spreading and wrecking havoc on its environment till it consumes the whole and shuts down all functioning. It's just what Johanna implied it to be: entertainment. A dangerous entertainment at that.

I can't be pulled into that kind of thinking, hearing words spoken without evidence. I'm a clinical psychologist, and that's just not how I operate. I have to step into that room with an objective, open mind. Whoever she is, she's still a person in pain, and I have to correct that in whatever way I can.

When I find the room I'm looking for—A202—I enter, taking a quick look around. And then my heart stops and I know the word _objective_ is tossed out of my vocabulary in that missing heartbeat.

She's alone in the room, stable and unconscious, without a roommate to share it with and only machines as her company. She's also strapped down to the rails of her bed. Her dark hair falls over her shoulders messily, and her skin is that patented olive tone. Other than that, she's aged only slightly, but into something more…mature, fuller. It makes the blood flow inside me redirect away from my brain to a lower area and my legs tense in anticipation.

A whirlwind of emotions compete for dominion over my body. Shock. Sadness. Remorse. Hope. Fear. Anger. I'm not accustomed to associating that last one with the woman before me. They blend into a storm that rages beneath me and pulls me in every which direction they want. This goes on as my mind focuses on a specific memory.

I can count the number of times we've spoken to each other on both hands and still have fingers to spare. But it's the most recent discussion that stings the hardest, and anger seems to be winning the internal battle. I know I can't stay here.

My legs unfreeze from their spot and I run as far away from this room as I can before I can do something stupid and rash.

She's never going to leave my thoughts now. I'll have to see her every day, help her recover from the trauma of what she's done to herself. I don't know if I can deal with that. All I can concentrate on is two things.

Her name is Katniss Everdeen, and 10 years ago on Graduation Night, she nearly broke my heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**I knew there was a reason I loved you guys. I loved all your reviews and I hope you enjoy this new chapter. I apologize for this coming out a little late, but a combination of life, my prom/graduation, and working on two more stories (which I talk more about in my profile) have pushed this back a little. But I couldn't keep you waiting too long ;)**

The title is taken from a song of the same name by Bring Me The Horizon, I highly recommend you check it out, unless metal isn't your style just read the lyrics. And don't forget to review, I will reply to any praise, comments, or suggestions you'd like to talk about. I'm only a PM away.

Special Thanks to my reviewers: .Style, Beautiful Lie 5105, DivergentJessica, Kpfan72491, Imagine Believe Achieve, and TitanNegro.

**Disclaimer: **I sadly do not own The Hunger Games. Fuck my life.

* * *

**Hospital For Souls**

_The Doctor_

The pounding of my fist against the glass door as I shout for Haymitch is so hurried I'm shocked the material doesn't crack. It's probably made of that unbreakable Plexiglas from Three. I can't even see if anyone is even present inside through the opaque surface. I'm just going on pure intuition. I have to wait several seconds, all of which feel like hours, before I hear the words; "Dammit, Mellark, will you quit your damn shouting!" fire back. The door flies open so quickly I have to take a step out of range so I'm not hit with it.

I'm met with the sight of a distraught, and thoroughly annoyed, Haymitch staring daggers at the level of my head. His chin is pointed low and makes his glare more intimidating.

His menacing gray eyes are a little glazed over, and I notice he's leaning heavily against the now open door frame. His white coat is only hooked through one of his arms while the rest hangs loosely off his shoulder. A foul smell is also radiating off of him. It doesn't take me too long to come to the fact he's been drinking again. I'm more irritated than shocked by this.

"Well," he scoffs, surprisingly without slurring the word. "What's so damn important that you had to interrupt my break, Mellark?"

I open my mouth to respond. Except nothing comes out. Not a sound. I can't think of a single way to phrase all the jumbled thoughts running through my head into words. I'm still being fought over internally by my emotions, clouding my ability to keep calm and deliver a rational answer. Hell, even if I could, none of it would get passed the constricting lump in my throat. I'd probably end up choking if I tried.

Haymitch, although still retaining that glassy look and unbalanced stance, is more composed, now frowning at my behavior and furrowing my brows. "Are you feeling alright, kid?" he asks cautiously.

Because I can't think of anything else to say or do, I push past him and enter his office wordlessly. It gives me time to collect myself in private.

I'm pacing and running my hands through my hair when he closes the door and saunters back to me.

"Look, kid. Whatever it is you're here for just spit it out. I can't have you breaking down on me. You're the only sane one out of the two of us," he says rather brusquely. It's no wonder he and Johanna can't stand each other. They're both too similar and rough around the edges to get along civilly.

I swallow the saliva forming to push the lump in my throat down and gather a few deep breaths. I eventually drop my hands from my hair, but they end up twitching at my side.

This is ridiculous. Katniss Everdeen should not be having this much of an effect on me, I remind myself. She's a weakness of mine. Even after 10 years of estrangement behind us, that woman has no idea exactly how much of an effect she can have. I take Haymitch up on his advice and just spit out the first thing that comes to mind.

"I can't do it," I say, a humorless laugh escaping at the realization of how true those words sound aloud. "I can't treat her."

"Treat who? The girl in ICU?" I nod tersely. At least I can function normally again.

"You shouldn't sell yourself so short, kid. I've seen you work—"

"It's not…that," I cut him off. "It's just…we have a history together." He arches his brows in surprise, so much so they almost disappear into his hairline. Obviously that was not the answer he was expecting. He says nothing though. I take it as a sign to continue. "We went to school together is all."

His expression deflates rather quickly and he starts shaking his head, reaching for a flask in his coat pocket and downs a generous sip. He strolls around me till he's behind his desk and sitting down with his feet plopped up on the glossy wood. His coat is still hanging off only one of his arms. I'd laugh if my nerves weren't so frayed.

"Well, if I was you and I ever met one of my schoolmates here, I'm pretty sure my first reaction wouldn't be to go knocking on somebody else's door. Unless, of course, it's to put as much distance between us as possible," he concedes. "But I'm not buying it, kid. Now why don't you really wanna treat our inductee to this fine institution?"

It's not that I don't _want to_. It's that I don't know if I_ can_.

"I told you; we know each other, that'll make things awkward. I'd be the last person she'd come to for help. She won't feel comfortable around me and I just…" I run a hand through my hair and turn away from him in frustration. I can feel his gaze boring into the back of my head.

A sad sigh escapes him, and his eyes are most likely soft as he says, "And it's you who also doesn't feel comfortable around her."

His words are true, not that I didn't know that already. There was just too much that went on between us for me to ignore. I was in love with her, and I can't put those past feelings aside, no matter how distant those days are. I'm just glad Haymitch has toned down the attitude enough to show a little understanding for once. I half expected to tease me about it all. I'm glad he hasn't so far.

"How long has it been since you two have spoken?"

I let out a long breath and turn to face him. "Not since we were both in senior year. It was a long time ago, but I'm pretty sure not long enough for her to forget about me." I imagine it'd be a bit more than difficult to considering our shared past. "So what do you think I should do?"

He rolls his eyes, like the answer is obvious. "Treat her, of course."

"Why?" I ask. The second I hear the word, I realize just how stupid the question is. There is no why when it comes to helping patients. It's a duty, not a choice. But I don't expect the next words that come out of Haymitch's mouth.

"Because you're probably all she has left." Hearing them makes me flinch, and feel infinitely guiltier.

"The way I see it," he continues, throwing back another drink from his flask. "This is the best thing that's happened all day. You _know_ her. You know what makes her tick, so you're skipping all the bullshit and getting right down into the problem. Only thing you're missing is the time between your separation. No one else is more qualified to handle your little sweetheart, Mellark. This is a golden opportunity."

This is a recipe for disaster, I think but don't air my opinion. The guilt continues to eat away at me. Whatever discomfort I feel around her doesn't change the fact that she needs help. I just have to put hose feeling aside and get to work.

The smirk that lights his face tells me he knows my resolve is crumbling and I'm coming around to his idea of treatment. He's probably basking in the idea that he's right and I'm being the irrational one. Or he's even drunker than I first thought.

I nod curtly. "Alright, I'll do it." My mind is set, and I know there's no going back on it now. This is the right thing to do.

"Wonderful," he says smirking behind his flask and drinking it dry. "And if she ever becomes too much for you, I do know a few Districts with available space for imports." His comment is so casual it might be considered comforting.

But I actually grimace at the thought. Although I certainly have some reservations on this, I don't trust anyone else to solve the complex patchwork of a woman that is Katniss Everdeen. He's right, I'm the best—and maybe only—chance she's got.

"Now, get going, kid," he orders, standing up from his desk to lead me to the door. "You've been killing my buzz all day and I can't stand to hear anymore about all this messed up drama."

With one strong shove, I'm outside again, the door closing behind me with a resounding slam. And I'm starting to ponder for the tenth time today why I respect the man so much.

* * *

_The Patient_

When I awake from the drugs, I feel as if I'm not alone—it's an instinctual thing, developed over many years of hunting. My eyelids are as heavy as lead, rendering me blind once again, but I'm not nearly as frightened by it as before. I know where I am, my surroundings haven't changed. The only differences are the straps tying down my arms and my new guest likely sitting at the foot of my bed.

I don't want to deal with whoever the hell it is. I want them to release me, take me back home, and leave me there to die. It'd be less trouble for them anyway.

I wish they could give me that, but I know better. I won't have a choice in staying alive, that choice has already been made up for me. I haven't resigned myself to that fate just yet, but I don't have the same fight in me after all the struggling I've been through. I might as well try to get this over with and be done with it already. I'm clearly not going anywhere any time soon.

Ignoring the pounding headache and the strain put on my muscles, my lids comply into semi-openness and light floods my vision.

With newly adjusted sight, I look to my guest, Peeta Mellark.

I still all movements, suddenly frozen in place, eyes wide in disbelief, heart beating erratically in shock. _Peeta Mellark! _I must be seeing things, a mirage. There he is, relaxed and laid back in a visitor's chair cushion, his focus directed on me. A thousand questions overwhelm my thoughts.

_What_ is he doing here?

What is _he_ doing here?

What is he doing _here_?

All excellent questions all trapped in the region between my mouth and lungs, threatening to choke me of air then and there. Maybe I still have a chance of dying after all.

Only now it's death by pure, unadulterated mortification.

_He_ cannot seriously be here at one of the worst moments of my life. I say 'one of' because there's stiff competition for the honor of number one. But regardless, this situation has now gone from bad to unbearable. I can't think of any other person I'd rather not want to see me like this than that man sitting on the chair next to my bed. On the day I try to kill myself—the day he was the last living thought on my mind—he shows up miraculously. The sayings are true. Fate is beyond cruel.

"Hi," he greets, pulling me out of my inner monologue. A reserved smile graces his face. He's aged nicely over the years, losing some of his boyish features, but his eyes are still the same deep blue and his ashy blonde hairs are as disheveled as ever. He's wearing a sparkling white coat and neatly trimmed black pants, one leg resting over the other. I probably look like a mess in a thin burlap sack in comparison, but I can't manage to avoid his intense gaze.

"Hello," I croak, swallowing down the lump in my throat. I finally look away when I see his smile grow another half an inch. He looks glad to see me, and I shouldn't want him to under the circumstances. But I do. He's familiar, and I'll take whatever comfort I find in that.

"It's good you're finally awake, I was starting to doze off myself."

I try for a smile, but it comes out a grimace. I'm still a little numb in some weird places from the morphling they injected, and I wouldn't be surprised if my face was one of them.

When I look back, I notice his eyes have shifted to the straps around my arms. I move them experimentally. They barely wade through an inch against the restraints.

"I'm sorry about those," he says, genuine regret seeping into his tone. "They're standard procedure when things tend to turn violent around here. We'll remove them after we take some tests and transfer you."

That catches my attention. "Transfer me where?" my voice cracks, but it's becoming easier to use, so I don't complain.

"My ward, Psychiatrics. But even through you're stable, we can't move you out without that wrist healed up and you feeling well rested. Until then, you'll have to spend the night here. I'm sorry."

It's the second time he's apologized, and he has no reason to. That is the definition of the Peeta Mellark I remember. I still have to ask him something, though. So I swallow thickly again, my eyes pleading because, without him knowing it, his apologies are throwing me off and threatening to spill forth the floodgates of my unstable emotions. If that happens, I know for a fact I'll break down in tears. I can't let that happen. The last thing I want is for Peeta Mellark to see how weak I am. But he's just far too kind and nothing about this situation is his fault, he might just get a weak moment out of me.

"What are you doing here?" I ask. It's a loaded question, surely he knows that.

"I should be asking you the same thing," he sighs, sliding his leg down and leaning further back into the plush seat. "But we'll get to that later. I work here, believe it or not. Clinical Psychology." He confirms the idea already forming in my mind; the white coat was an obvious giveaway. Though, I still haven't given up on the idea he's a mirage in my wild hazy imagination.

"I've been here for almost a year working towards my Residency," he continues. "It's been tough, but the rewards are worth it and I enjoy the work."

"I suites you," I reply curtly. "You've…always been good at helping people." Another loaded statement. The flinch of remembrance that crosses his expression tells me he's picked up on it this time.

"Well…I do what needs to be done." His eyes have darkened, and his gaze is so intense it's as if he's seeing right through me. He pauses for a long moment as we both stare at each other wordlessly, blue meeting gray for the first time in a decade. "Do you know why you're here?" he asks.

I nod, but say nothing else. He waits for a few seconds.

"Are you going to say it, or should I?" he asks coldly. I don't want to say it, I don't want to think about it, because then the shame will consume me. I'm scowling at him, and the tension is visible across his strong jaw. "Katniss…you need help." It's the first time he's said my name, and it still carries that sad wistful undertone to it.

I close my eyes, shaking my head at him with a grimace. "I'm fine. I'll always be fine."

"Katniss," he softly whispers. Warm hands envelop my uninjured one, spreading a heat through my body that makes me shiver. I'd like to think if I wasn't strapped down so tightly, I'd pull away from him, but I'm not so sure. "Is it okay if I ask you some questions?"

I open my eyes at a glacial pace, nodding ever so slightly it's almost imperceptible. He breathes a sigh of relief, stroking the back of my hand with his thumb. I hold onto him firmly.

"Do you know what today is?" he begins.

"July something." I answer. He tells me the exact date.

"Have you been on any sort of medication? Anti-depressants?"

"No, I've never taken meds."

It's his turn to nod. "Do you…do you remember what happened today? Before you woke up in this place."

He's trying to make me say it, but I have no chance of avoiding it now. I take in a shaky breath and say, "I tried to kill myself." Somehow saying it aloud makes it sound infinitely worse than it really was, but I force myself to continue. "I was in my bathroom…with a knife. I was…crying my eyes out on the floor…" The restraints prevent me from wiping away a rebellious tear that escapes down my cheek, but Peeta swipes it for me with his hand. I don't think on the intimacy of the gesture, I only focus on the fact that it makes feel better, not being alone anymore.

"And I just…did it," I deadpan, my body is still shaky but I haven't broken down and that's considered an accomplished feat in my mind.

He gives me a reassuring squeeze of the hand and wipes away the remaining wetness on my face. I suddenly realize our faces are uncharacteristically close, only separated by a foot of empty space. His eyes are still boring into mine, and I'm able to see flecks of color in his irises. We both recoil back quickly, but the tension is still thick in the air and he hasn't removed the grip on me yet.

He audibly gulps, avoiding a glance in my direction. "I think that's enough for today," he stands, finally extracting himself from the chair and my hand. I'm left feeling a little cold because of it. "You should really be getting some rest," he states neutrally. His jaw is tight and I can feel the tension radiating off of him, as if he's trying to hold back whatever emotion he's feeling. "Your wrist still needs more time, but I'll be here when they come to transfer you."

I nod vigorously. "Okay."

When he looks back toward me, running a hand through his shaggy hair, his face has softened and that reserved smile makes its return. "It was great seeing you again, Katniss. I just…wish it wasn't under these circumstances."

I attempt a smile back, but it produces little success. My nerves are still too stressed to attempt anything like smiling. He backs up slowly toward the exit, giving me one last look. Just as he's about to close the door shut, I finally whisper a response.

"Me too, Peeta. Me too." But I'm not even sure if he heard me.

* * *

**Don't forget to review, alert, or favorite and all that jazz. I'll probably upload a new story before the next chap is out, so look out for that.**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **I am so sorry for this freakishly long wait! I literally hate myself. It's been a full month. And after everything you guys have done for me with all your reviews and alerts and favorites (many of which I do not deserve) I feel like a big let down. And to be honest, I'm disappointed in myself with this chapter even though nothing seems wrong with it. It's just that I've taken some time off: I'm currently in a different country, working in my dad's shop that takes a good 8-10 hours out of my day (and is greatly responsible for this delay in writing) and it just hasn't been going great for me stress wise. I apologize, I'll just stop ranting. Please, read on and enjoy!

Also don't forget to review, alert, or favorite and all that jazz. If you're interested, my Tumblr name is "gamesofayoungcontrarian"

Special Thanks to Fnur, therebelliondies (for the amazingly appreciated advice!) and so-amazing-here (for the many PMs and ego-boosters) and all you people on Tumblr who read my story after it was recommended by everlarkrecs. You are all too wonderful.

**Disclaimer: **I sadly do not own The Hunger Games. Fuck my life.

* * *

**_Hospital For Souls_**

_**And then I found out how hard it is to really change. Even hell can get comfy once you're settled in.**_

—_**Oliver Sykes **_

_The Patient_

Once Peeta is out of the room, I'm left alone with only my thoughts and the memories of the past twenty minutes. And that is the last thing that would do me any good in my current state of mind.

I try to keep myself busy—I've learned over the years that one of the best ways to take your mind off a topic is to distract yourself—but there are only so many ways to do so whilst strapped to a bedpost and stranded in a hospital. Luckily, I'm able to reach the call button—which I hadn't even noticed was there before—on the bed's arm. I don't know who's on the receiving end of the line, but I'm hoping beyond hope whoever it is proves to be a worthy distraction.

I'm a little surprised when I see the two orderlies arrive not long after, simply because I didn't hear them enter the room. Moving unnaturally quiet is something I've perfected in my teens and take great pride in, but it seems even the hospital staff can give me a run for my money.

They smile politely, asking me some basic questions. How am I feeling? Am I hungry? Is there anything they can be of service to? Nothing personal or medical-related. I tell them I'm famished and that the tightness of the straps is killing me.

They smile at the former, but grow nervous at the latter, exchanging furtive glances that don't go unnoticed by my confused gaze. It takes me a few moments before their actions finally dawn on me. They're frightened, because I'm the unstable deranged patient who attacked a group of nurses. Word spreads fast in these circles apparently. Though I wince at the memory of my actions, I hold no regrets. I needed to get out of this place. I still do.

Eventually, and half-heartedly, they acquiesce to loosening my bounds, being cautious in handling my injured wrist, before fetching my meal. I almost moan in relief at having the painful restrictions lifted and the extra range of motion in my arms. But they don't remove them fully. The bright red marks on my wrists finally peek out, and I rub them to soothe the sensitive skin.

I can't complain though, at least I'll be able to feed myself with my own hands now.

The orderlies come back with a bowl of chicken soup, toast and jam on the side, and a bottle of water. The food isn't terrible, albeit it's a bit far from the most appetizing meal I've had. The soup is lukewarm and under-seasoned. I tell myself it's only because I haven't eaten anything since yesterday that I find myself drooling over it.

They leave me to eat in peace, and I hungrily gobble the entire tray of food in under five minutes before it's taken away. Stomach satisfied, but still immobile, I have nothing left to fill in the long hours ahead of me. I should've taken my time with the meal instead of inhaling it.

My thoughts wonder, aimlessly, taking everything around me in. It's not… a completely uncomfortable setting. The room is designed for functionality, not luxury, at yet it gives off a feeling of privacy with its shaded—and permanently shuttered—windows. It's oddly comfortable. After living a reclusive, almost hermetic, lifestyle for the past month, it also feels somewhat strange being in a new environment and speaking to people again.

The thought doesn't last long. _This is a hospital_, my mind notes. _This is where people come to die_. It's their job to take care of me, and I've never needed taking care of before. That's not about to change. I've gone years without needing people, it's just the way my life has played out. Peeta Mellark has no right to keep me here against my will.

If it wasn't for these damn straps.

I throw my head back against the pillow, utterly frustrated, rubbing my face to at least give my arms something to do with their newfound semi-freedom. I almost laugh out loud. _Free_ is the last thing I'm feeling. This is a four-walled cage, and I am its songbird, forced to live behind metal bars, performing, till someone unlocks the gate and releases me into the open sky.

That will never happen. They think I'm sick, they think I need to be here. _Peeta_ thinks I need to be here. As much as I have missed the boy with the bread—and even that is difficult enough for me to admit to myself—he and his opinions on my health are not a priority I give.

I will think of a way out of this cage. Peeta is just another obstacle trying to keep me here, no better than those nurses holding me back. He won't hurt me, but he's hardly an ally of mine. This will more likely end up hurting him more than me.

A pang rips through my chest at the thought of him in pain, causing my throat to constrict. I've done enough to that boy—or man, I should say—so it's probably best I _do_ leave instead of torture him with my presence.

But for now, I'm growing tired, and the drugs still haven't fully exited my system. I'll rest on it and hope an idea comes to mind on the details of my departure.

Sleep does not come to me easily, for good reason, but the emotional and physical exhaustion of the day is pulling me under. Within an hour, I drift off, burning out like candlelight.

_I'm standing in a dark tunnel, at the center of a busy railway. The sound of an elevator shaft grinding and creaking fills the background. Vehicles carrying grimy men in dull uniforms and thickly smudged hard-hats pass by as if they don't notice the grown, out of place, woman in their midst. Judging by the cold, vacant stares, it's hard to tell if they _could_ notice me at all. I have to squint to fully make out their silhouettes. They blend so easily to the shadow, with their gray attire and dark skin it's no wonder that the first word that comes to mind in describing them is ghostly._

_If I'm being honest, I'm not surprised to find myself here of all places. This is where all my worst nightmares begin. In a coal mine, half a mile underground._

_The walls are hard and black, smothering what little illumination is provided at this depth. I decide it suites the atmosphere perfectly. Everything here is dead, or dying. Nothing grows in these inhabitable conditions, even the camaraderie among workers only goes so far._

_I take slow, tentative steps, even though I have no sense of direction. Every wall and crevice looks exactly the same in this cold underground labyrinth. But then a flash of color catches my eye and I'm forced to blind rapidly at the sudden brightness against the dark backdrop. I follow its path, picking up speed until I'm practically running._

_A botch of blonde runs through the edges of my vision, forcing me to constantly turn my head in whichever direction, only to find nothing. I know what I saw. _It's_ the one that's evading me—far too successfully for my liking. This game is quickly becoming frustrating, and agitating, but I can't seem to stop chasing the brightness in this sullen place._

_As I'm turning my head for the hundredth time, seemingly lost in the maze, the mysterious object comes to a halt in the distance not too far away. Without its sudden movements, I realize it's not a botch of color at all._

_It's a girl with flowing golden hair and gracefully fair skin. Her back facing me, giving me a view of the untucked shirt that forms a duck tail. And she's not alone._

_An older miner kneels in front of her, hands resting on her upper arms, near the shoulders of her painfully white blouse. He's covered in earth, but doesn't leave a smudge of dirt on her pristine clothing. He's smiling, like a child would receiving a surprise present on his birthday. And even after so many years, after so many sleepless nights without him, I recognize the miner as my father almost immediately. I can never forget his beaming face. It's permanently etched into my nightmares, like a bad scar._

_The identity of the girl, if not before, is now blaringly obvious. My father reserves that countenance for a select few people, but it's always its biggest and brightest around two special, specific persons. His daughters._

_She looks so beautiful, and so much younger than when I last saw her. Gone are the rapid mid-teen growth spurts and womanly curves and voluptuous beauty of her full face. She looks no older that twelve right before my eyes. The picture of pure innocence._

_My breath catches in my throat in wistful awe. My lips are quivering for no absolute reason. "Prim," I breathe, almost inaudibly. I don't even hear it myself._

_She snaps her head in my direction, our eyes locking. Her cerulean blue meeting cloudy gray. Father drops his arms to allow her to turn fully and he sends me a lazy grin from behind Prim. I notice her lips are moving, and I catch the word she's mouthing as it leaves._

"_Katniss," she whispers._

_And then, the entire room goes up in an explosion of earth and fire._

_I watch, helplessly, as the two people I love most in this world are incinerated before my eyes._

_Whether the blood curling screams I release is from the terrifying scene I've witnessed, or the sudden sharp pain that stabs my body from the fire that's burning my flesh, I do not know. But either way, I have shattered. My body is wracking with cries and shouts. Agony and pain take over my senses while I writhe for an escape that will never come. I am engulfed in flames, destined to burn till my being is as black and scorched as the coal._

_My sister's last word rings in my mind like a cruel incantation._

_Katniss. Katniss. Katniss._

_And then, just to torture my mind and body further, the mantra takes on an achingly familiar male voice. Peeta Mellark's voice._

_Katniss…Katniss….wait._

"KATNISS!"

* * *

_The Doctor_

I'm shouting now, shaking her shoulders so roughly her back is lightly bouncing off the bed, as her gray eyes fly wide open. Tears had been spilling out long before they opened up, causing rivulets to stream down her face in weird angles. But the worst is finally over now that she's regained consciousness. It was terrifying enough watching her like that.

I was making my usual rounds, a bit more anxiously than normal. This isn't even my ward, but that didn't stop me from taking my sweet time walking past her sleeping form every hour or so. The first time I checked in, she was dozing off soundlessly, calm and relaxed. I couldn't help the smile that tugged at my lips at the way her unkempt hair messily spanned out across the pillow like a halo. The second time I came around was not nearly as pleasant. She was tossing and turning so violently I was having trouble believing she was still asleep. But I recognized a night terror when I saw one. I approached with caution, fearful that with her straps loosened she might lash out in an episode and hurt herself.

Sweat stuck to her brow and her features were contorted in pain as she breathed in heavily. The heart monitor was sounding off erratically.

She stilled for a brief moment, and then she started screaming.

It would've been almost comical at how much it startled me if the situation weren't so direly serious. I crossed the room in two quick strides and gripped her tightly in my arms. It served to both pin her down and shake her out of her night terrors. But she was still squirming and crying her head off. I had to shout her name five times before she finally awoke.

And here she is, staring up at me with tear stained eyes, searching my face as if she can't believe I'm here in front of her. I dare not let go of her in her precarious state, even though the position of our bodies—her forearms trapped between our chests and my hands gripping the sides of her biceps—probably isn't the most comfortable one. But by the way she reaches up around my neck with her arms, pulling me into an improvised impromptu embrace; I realize she needs a different kind of comfort.

I return the embrace around her middle, my fingers trailing slowly up her spine, whispering, "It's over. You're okay. You're okay," and other soothing words. Then something unexpected happens: Katniss Everdeen begins to cry—really cry—in my presence. She's shaking with silent sobs like a leaf in a thunderstorm, but her hold on my neck is like a vice. It's alright though, I don't think I want her to let go.

A group of nurses headed by Octavia (a plump but short woman who's responsible for manning the nurse's station in the reception hall) is standing by the doorframe, all eyeing me with looks ranging from curious to shocked to fearful. I wave them off as discreetly as I can, not wanting to disturb Katniss, and thankfully they scatter out of the way like ants under a magnifying glass. There are sure to be rumors swarming around what they've just seen by the time I leave this room. But I'll deal with _them_ later, for now _Katniss_ is the only person I need to be concerned about.

Moments pass before her sobbing dies down to sniffles and hiccups, and her grip on me goes slack as she lowers herself to sit up on the bed.

She tries to compose herself as best she can in front of me, wiping her nose and puffy eyes with the back of her hand. I'm ready to give her all the time she needs. She isn't exactly the best speaker, so it comes as a surprise when she finally initiates the first words of a conversation.

"I didn't want you to see that," she says simply, her voice cracking again.

"I know… but I did."

"Well, I wish you didn't." And then she goes silent again, taking deep breaths as her heart monitor evens out. It's not a statement she's expecting a response to, and I can't find one that's appropriate enough. She's refusing to look at me. From this angle, her hair provides a curtain of protection from my gaze, covering most of her face. My fingers twitch to push it behind her ear, but they remain on my lap.

I eventually find words. "Still… I don't want you to feel like you can't come to me when you're in need." She scoffs, but otherwise remains unresponsive as I continue. "And I _know_ how you feel about showing any sort of vulnerability. I just need you to understand that I'm not going away. I'm here for you."

Katniss, at last, graces me with an unwavering glare that does nothing to break my resolve. "You shouldn't be helping me. I'm trouble, Peeta. You and I both know that." She sounds almost sad.

"And what if I want to help you?" I counter, leaning forward challengingly.

"Then you'd be wasting your time," she replies, nonchalantly. "Nothing good is going to come out of this."

My brows furrow. "If it means you can be healthy and functioning again without having to harm yourself, then I think its damn well worth a shot." I state emphatically.

She grimaces with frustration, shaking her head. "You can't just… fix people like they're made of glass, Peeta." Her voice is shaky, brimming with emotion in her undertone. "Sometimes the pieces are just too broken up."

I want to reach out and touch her, to grab hold of her the way she clung to me and whisper in her ear how wrong she really is. But I've already done that once today and it just doesn't seem like a second time is a good idea with her inconsistent, mercurial nature.

"Katniss," I reply, gathering my words with as much firmness as I can muster. "You're not broken. Just… bent."

But she doesn't look convinced. We've reached a stalemate, an understanding that neither of us will back down. She's being more stubborn than Haymitch, an act previously thought impossible, but I should've expected nothing less. She will fight me on every turn, every step toward her recovery and therapy, always at loggerheads. And she's not above playing dirty.

Surprisingly, I actually find myself _up for_ the challenge that is Katniss Everdeen. She deserves a long, healthy life even if she doesn't realize it herself, and I will do everything in my power to make sure she gets one.

"How long have you been having night terrors?" I ask suddenly. A raw determination is running through my veins like liquid courage, and not of the white liquor kind.

She turns her head away, ignoring me as if I'd said nothing.

"What are they about?" I prod with growing conviction. "Why do you think they torment you?"

"Why do you keep asking questions you already know the answers to?" she seethes, a sneer twitching her upper lip.

Now I'm the one that grows silent. Suddenly I'm transported back to those long school mornings sitting one row back on the other side of the classroom from the girl of my dreams. I would watch her for almost hours on end each day, noticing the subtle details of her features and the emotions reflecting them. Her eyes were heavy with discolored bags underneath, her dark hair messily and hastily braided, a scowl or cool expression plastered her face, and slow uncaring movements characterized her arms and entire body. All evidence of sleep deprivation. It had started not soon after her father passed away and then continued plentifully so. After a few months however, those moments became less and less common, until they arose again occasionally, but infrequently.

It was at one of those moments of restlessness that we would have our first real face-to-face conversation. But the memory passes, and I'm drawn back to the present with the messy haired woman in front of me as if she'd never changed over the years.

"Because things are different, Katniss," I reply, evenly. "You've been gone for a long time, and I imagine you've had your fair share of new, unresolved issues."

She rolls her eyes, dismissively. "And how would _you_ know? You said it yourself; I've been gone a long time. You _don't_ know me."

To her surprise, I grin at her vitriol, shaking my head wistfully. "Well, if there's one thing I remember dearly about Katniss Everdeen, it's that she was—above all else—a survivor. As long as she had someone or something to focus on, she would always find a way to keep going. Even if the odds were never in her favor."

She audibly swallows, a grimace contorting her expression, and she seems to have trouble getting words out. My grin falls and I eye her with concern. The room suddenly feels colder, tension thickly weighing down the air. I'm about to reach out for her, and then she takes a deep, shaky breath and says, "You'd be right. Things are different now." Another deep breathe, and a slight hiccup escapes. Her eyes are drawn so tight she's almost on the edge of tears again. "T-there's no life for me here. I-I have _no one_ in my life to focus on…to live for now. I don't think I'll ever be happy again."

I search her face anxiously. She believes every word she's saying. But confusion and curiosity takes over before I can think of any other responses. "I don't understand." I say, my tone softly questioning.

"Peeta…" she whispers. "There's no one else anymore. My sister is dead."


End file.
